“Tucker, old man. There you are. Why the devil are you hiding out up here?”
Tucker turned to see Jonathan Straithorn coming toward him, his arms out wide. Jonathan’s family lived a few doors down, and he tended to appear whenever Blythe threw one of her parties. A nice enough fella, though Tucker couldn’t say he knew the man well.
“So many lovely women for the pickings. Or men, if that’s your particular poison.” Jonathan cocked his head, indicating the far side of the gallery and the two Ethels, heads so close together Tucker could practically see the heat rise between the two men, so obviously infatuated with each other.
“It’s not,” he said succinctly.
“Nor mine,” Jonathan agreed. “If those two aren’t careful, they’ll end up in the papers. Rumor is that the Tattletale is here. Along with a crasher toting a camera.”
“Bloody hell,” Tucker said, irritated that the infamous gossip columnist had crashed the party. He leaned over the rail, scouring the crowd for an unfamiliar face or anyone carrying a camera or a flash pad. The exercise was futile, of course. No one looked familiar. And considering the density of the crowd, he probably wouldn’t notice a photographer until the flash powder ignited.
“Bloody hell,” he repeated. “You would think with the Strangler still roaming the city the news hounds would have better things to do than chase gossip.”
“Ah, but the Ragtime Strangler’s a mystery,” Jonathan said. “Nothing but questions. Who is he? When will he strike next? Who will be his next victim?” He shrugged. “Not much to report there. But the loves and affairs of the social elite? That, my friend, sells newspapers.”
Tucker eyed him curiously. “A very passionate speech. I’d almost think that you are the mysterious Tattletale.”
Jonathan chuckled. “I assure you, I am not. Though I will admit to having some secrets.”
“Do you now?” Tucker asked, smiling at his neighbor. “You pique my curiosity. Be careful, or I’ll have to enlist Blythe’s aid. She could coerce a secret out of a priest.”
“I imagine she could,” Jonathan said with a tight smile. “And I could only dream of being so lucky as to be the subject of your sister’s coercive tactics.”
“Jonathan, I’m sorry,” Tucker said earnestly. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right,” Jonathan said, but his face was still tight and he didn’t quite look at Tucker.
Tucker wanted to kick himself. How stupid of him to have suggested getting Jonathan and Blythe together, even in jest. The extent of Jonathan’s admiration for Blythe was no secret. Nor, unfortunately, was Blythe’s stout refusal to be wooed by the man. “He may be a neighbor,” she’d told Tucker, “but I don’t like him.” No explanation, no second chances. And that, quite simply, was that.
Tucker cleared his throat. “Been two weeks since the Strangler last attacked,” he said in an effort to change the subject. “I expect there will be another incident soon.”
Jonathan eyed him curiously. “Do you?”
“Seems like a reasonable guess to me,” Tucker said. “Like you said, the bastard’s getting no press. And my guess is he craves attention. From the world, and from the women he attacks.”
“Careful there, Greene. You’re turning into your Detective Goodnight.”
“I think not,” Tucker said. “But the conclusions don’t seem out of sorts, do you think? All of his victims have been women with a certain breeding. More, they’ve all been the types of young women you might see described in the Tattletale’s column. Not young women studying abroad or living in a convent.”
“Flappers,” Jonathan said agreeably. “Women who share our gin. And our beds. Loose women,” he added. “Or that’s what my father would say, anyway.”
Tucker looked at him sharply. “And do you agree?”
Jonathan waved the question away as if it were smoke. “That stuffed shirt? The man has ticker tape where his blood should be. But his attitude does suggest a question. What did the victims do to attract the Strangler’s attention?”
“Figure that out, and we can bait the bastard,” Tucker said.
“Tell me you’re not serious.”
“I’m not,” Tucker said, though in truth he wished he did have the wherewithal to see such a plan through. That a man was so vilely and violently violating and then murdering Beverly Hills women…well, it made his blood burn.
He’d seen horrors during the war, of course, but those horrors spoke to an ideal. Even though he had been conscripted, and would not care to repeat the experience, he understood and agreed with President Wilson’s motives for joining the Allies in the conflict. The vindication of human right, the President had said. And Tucker agreed. To now hear tales of women torn about in the manner of the men he’d crouched with in the French trenches—men less fortunate than he, who had not come home—well, the horror made him ill.
“Speaking of loose women,” Jonathan said, unaware that Tucker’s mind had wandered. “Isn’t that Talia Calvert?” He pointed toward an older woman in orange with an overly large ostrich feather protruding from her head scarf.
Talia Calvert—also known in the gossip magazines as the woman who shared home and hearth with motion picture director R. J. Calvert—tossed her head back in response to something her companion was saying and laughed with delight. She opened her eyes, saw Tucker and waved. Then she aimed her cigarette at him and mouthed, Don’t move.
Ten minutes later she’d worked her way through the room and up the stairs, flirting and laughing and generally beaming at every male within a fifty-foot radius. She pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks. “Tucker, darling, I’m paralyzed with happiness to see you. And who is your absolutely delicious friend?” she asked, turning to Jonathan.
After Tucker made the introductions, Jonathan pressed a kiss to Talia’s hand, sparking a delighted tinkle of laughter. She hooked an arm around his waist and scooted close, apparently claiming Jonathan as hers for the evening. “Have you thought any more about R.J.’s offer?” she asked, tossing her husband’s name into the mix even while her hand slid down to knead Jonathan’s ass.
Tucker tried to keep a straight face, pointedly looking at Talia’s eyes and not the direction of travel of her nimble fingers. “R.J. and I have had this conversation, Talia. I’m not leaving radio to move into film. I’m leaving radio to take the helm of my father’s empire.”
“Empire,” she said with a laugh and a wave of her hand. “Darling, the war is over, or hadn’t you heard? Leave the munitions as your father’s legacy and move on.”
“He’s diversified,” Tucker said, forcing his voice to stay calm and reasonable even though he wanted to scream at her to drop the damn subject. He had no interest in stepping in to fill his father’s shoes. But what choice did he have? He’d been born to this life and, as his father had said, it was his obligation to protect it and the family. Just as it had been his obligation to fight for his country in the war. He’d pursued his own dream for the past four years, writing radio plays. Now it was time to look to duty.
“Diversified?” Talia asked.
“Most of my father’s days now are spent overseeing his portfolio.”
At that, Talia actually snorted her gin, which had the side effect of forcing her to remove her hand from Jonathan’s tush so that she could dab at the front of her dress. Jonathan, always a gentleman, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it over Talia’s breasts.
“You?” Talia said,